Here’s to the silent void we send all our stories into.
Here’s to the hope they come out well.
Here’s to the waiting, the listening the watching, the wondering if it was real.
Here’s to the dark nights we all spend alone over black keys, crying into nothing about people we’ve never seen.
Here’s to the caffeine, the deadlines, the “making-ends-meet” that all fade away as if they never were the moment the words come.
Here’s to the voices in our heads. The ones that tell us write, even when it seems mad. The ones that never shut up, even when we tell them to.
Here’s to the unpublished, the rebels who dare to believe that the beautiful is possible even when the most miserable, depressing, and practical reality spits in our face.
Here’s to those of us who haven’t got a shred of proof that everything’s going to come out alright in the end, and here’s to those of us who don’t care to have it. Those who don’t dream, but plan, and plot, and whisper the possibilities in each other’s ears like revolution.
Here’s to dancing in the rain. To telling lies just because they fall a certain way from your tongue. To forgetting. To singing to the sky. Here’s to the swords we fight with, just to keep one single silver moment alive.
Here’s to never paying the slightest attention to “what can’t be done.” Because we believe in the promise we made that one day, it will.
Here’s to building the world of fairy stars and colored smoke. The one we believe in. The one we love.
Here’s to making it more than lifeless ink.
Here’s to writing the one word that lives inside them all–